


Fiddler's Green

by lab



Category: Camelot (TV), Merlin (TV)
Genre: Bob (genre), Crossover, Gen, Gen Fic, Pre-Canon, WIP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-31 19:07:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lab/pseuds/lab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sleeper needs ten breaths to fall into a dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fiddler's Green

**Author's Note:**

  * For [twilight_topas](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=twilight_topas).
  * Inspired by [Merlinreversebb art prompt 1017](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/7022) by twilight_topas. 



> Written for [Merlinreversebb](http://merlinreversebb.livejournal.com/) 2011, for this [awesome and inspiring piece of art](http://i.imgur.com/53BuX.jpg) by [twilight_topas](http://twilight-topas.livejournal.com/). Thank you so much for the inspiration!
> 
> [WIP; parts VII - X to be posted soon.]

_“When Merlin's Oak shall tumble down,  
Then shall fall Carmarthen Town.”_  
\- Old English proverb 

**I.**  
He drew circles around the tree and himself, his hands red from his own blood, his fingernails black from Ygraine’s ashes. Camelot was falling, the boy-King no match for his sister, now that she carried her brother’s child under her heart. Camelot was falling and it was his fault. The Land was angry with him, shouting at him through her ravens and blackbirds, their croaks a cacophony of curses. She didn’t send them after him, though, because she understood. Understood what he had to do to keep Camelot from falling, to keep his magic contained, to keep himself alive until he would be needed again. That didn’t mean that she like it, because what he was about to do would change her, too. The wind she sent to carry away the ash was a faint protest, more of a resigned sigh considering that she could just swallow him whole or have the forest tear him apart with its roots.

 _Ygraine._ His magic roared inside him at the mere mention of her name. He leaned against the tree and rested his head against its bark, his fingers tracing the rugged texture, its hollows and knots. It was the oldest oak he could find before everything became a blur of greens and the smell of wet earth, the urge just to let go, to follow Ygraine, to leave the Land and its stupid feuds behind, forever. Only for him there was no leaving until Albion rose, until the Land let him go, he only knew that too well. He had tried. He dug his fingers into the bark until his fingertips were raw and bloody. His magic roared in his gut. “Hush now,” he said to himself and the raw surge of power under his skin, “it will be over soon, do this for me, for us.” 

Magic meant selling a piece of your soul and because his soul now belonged to Ygraine, his magic was angry. He felt it prick and curse, welling up in rashes and black marks. He dug his fingers deeper into the oak’s bark, now soft to his touch and suddenly he fell — 

**II.**  
He was dreaming. He knew he was dreaming because the grass was so green it glittered in the sun and the sky was as blue as the sea when she gave birth to the world and to him. He also knew he was dreaming because Camelot had never been this white, this _whole_. A castle, _not a ruin_ , a castle stood tall against lush hills of green, no war-trampled paths drawing scars on its lands. 

He breathed again.

He liked this dream and decided to stay a while longer to marvel at the Pendragon crest, emblazed in gold on red banners that hung from every tower and merlon, every window and balustrade, rocked to life by the breeze in a quiet game. He exhaled, just as softly and on his breath let himself carry closer to Camelot, its white walls blinding like the heart of a flame. The lower town, gathered around the castle like colorful skirts embroidered with pathways and alleys was abuzz with people and chatter too official to be gossip: _the king is getting married, Camelot shall have a queen, I wonder what they will wear, I wonder what there will be served at the banquet, may the High Priestess of the Land bless them!_. Girls and boys were running through the fields and hills and gathered flowers for the decorations while the first fireworks and bonfires flared up. Nobody was afraid of bandits, curses or the land itself, it was as if Camelot’s white walls banished the mere thought of danger alone.

_“Long live the king, long live the queen!”_

He crawled deeper into the dream, a gnarled smile on his face.

**II.**

_Ygraine._ The name called to him like a spell, no matter how far he ran, or how high he climbed, the whispers and mourning chants, the candles lit in her name and offerings to the Old Religion to honor her life drew him back to Camelot.

Even here she wasn’t alive. Even this wasn’t enough to escape his own grief. 

He bit his lip until he tasted blood and let himself be drawn deeper into the shadows of those that had known and lost her until he found - Uther’s chambers. Uther would never be king to him, especially not like this, with his hands braced against the shelf above the fireplace, his face raw from tears and sobs that had finally broken free. The flames drew jagged shadows across his silhouette shaped like the teeth of the monster he really was.  
A monster spurred by grief and who was selfish enough to do anything to drown out that grief, be it war or murder, be it the destruction of the land itself. He stretched himself into the shadow, his claws growing longer and darker. He would end this right here, keep the madness he felt in these rooms from poisoning his kingdom. It already had.

Now he knew why the whole real wept for Ygraine.

A boy’s breath, soft as a feather, touched his cheek. A boy, _Ygraine’s blood_ , his eyes as wide and beautiful as hers. He cowered behind one of the drapes, knees drawn to his chest and watched his father with quiet trepidation. A boy, five, six summers old. He wondered how long he had slept. He pressed himself closer against the wall and studied him. The boy was scared but he wanted to know, wanted to be with his father, wanted to be loved by his father. Ygraine’s son. His claws shrank back into the shadows. 

No son should see his father die. He had made sure of that once, he would not make this mistake now. 

“They all have to die,” Uther said to himself. “All of them. Magic is the root of all evil in this kingdom, and I will see it purged and my kingdom cleansed, all of it, all of it.” 

_Magic._ Magic only made you as mad or angry as you were. It gave form to your madness and consequences to your thoughts. Fury welled up inside him, so much stronger than the sadness he shared with Uther. _I will make sure that you know that magic is what it is, boy, do not listen to your father_ he whispered into the boy’s ear, but no voice left his lips. He tried again, but the boy did not react and the walls drew him into them, covering him with bricks, protecting their kings. The castle smelled of blood and burnt bones and the walls grazed him with their teeth - a silent warning. He would show him what magic meant, he would show this traitorous castle what his magic was. He pulled at the sobs and wails and screams, the wounds inflicted in Ygraine’s name, the people burnt and drowned, the families torn apart. 

They came to him willingly and freely, their hands reaching for Uther. He smiled at Uther’s screams and watched the boy run to his father. He laughed as Uther cradled the boy in his arms, sword drawn to defend him against the ghosts of the souls he murdered. He continued to laugh long after the castle spat him out, the web of sobs and wails stripping away the last of his grief for Ygraine. 

He was exhausted and so he slept.

**III.**

The next time he came to, the banners were gone, as was the sun, and the wind smelled of autumn and thunderstorms. He felt empty and calm, he was sure he had forgotten something, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He stretched, his bones and joints stiff and slow to move. Fear was in the air, its bitter stench overlaying the sweet smells of summer. The courtyard with its whitewashed walls and marbled tiles arranged in the shape of the Pendragon crest had been transformed into muddy practice and harness grounds, criss-crossed with imprints of hooves, carriages and boots.

Tar, soothing oils and fire. The smells of war, he would recognize them anywhere.

He took a few steps and welcomed the pain shooting up his feet, it cleared its head. Camelot was different. His dream was changing without his doing and he would rather be dead than dream up a war. He closed his eyes and thought of the castle he had first seen, with its high walls and red banners, but the image slipped through his mind like running. sand. Just as he _almost_ had it, the sound of footsteps on wet earth ripped him out of his thoughts.

“Tell me about my mother, Gaius,” the voice of a young boy, too defiant not to be scared echoed across the field. He turned around and saw an entourage of guards, an old man and a boy in the middle of the flock. A shock of blond hair, and eyes as bright as the sky from the castle he remembered. “I would, sire, but your father has forbidden to talk about her,” the old man said, and the loyalty in his voice barely outweighed the anger. “Is father angry at her? Is that why he does not want anyone to talk of her?” The old man - _Gaius_ \- stopped and turned to the guards. “A moment of privacy, if you please.” He walked away from the guards, his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Your father, Arthur, loved your mother very much. So much that even the mention of her name hurts him,” Gaius said and at once he knew that this man would have given his life for — 

_Ygraine._

The name cut through him, cut him loose and suddenly he could move again. “Who is there?” Gaius said, his hand raised to call the guards. A friend, he said, and in the blink of an eye he was at Arthur’s feet, kneeling so he could look him in the eye. Arthur, all the king’s son - all Ygraine’s son - did not move back but studied him with the intense gaze of a child that had seen too much already. “I knew your mother very well, Arthur, and what you need to remember of her is not that she loved you or that she gave her life for you,” Arthur’s lip trembled, but his Pendragon pride - _that damned Pendragon pride_ \- forbade him to cry in front of a stranger, “but that she was brilliant, strong and fair, she had the heart of a ruler and the mind of a mother,” and with that he got up because this was his dream and it had been too long since he had grown wings and had ridden on a storm. He ruffled Arthur’s hair and looked at Gaius who stared at him, speechless - or maybe he had taken his voice, it was difficult to tell. He wanted to go, but something in his pocket made him too heavy to grow wings and fly away.

“You — didn’t she love me?” 

Children. Sometimes he forgot how young they were. “Of course she loved you, but that’s not the important thing about her. Everybody will love you, you’ll see.” He drew a silver coin from his pocket, heavy with the love he felt for Ygraine. “Here, take this and guard it well. It was Ygraine’s.” The boy looked at the tarnished silver coin and studied it with a gaze of a prince who had all the riches of the kingdom at his feet. His mother would not have owned a dull coin like this, she had all the treasures in the world. 

Children.

He rubbed his thumb over it in small circles and Arthur’s eyes went wide as a silver falcon appeared on the coin, briefly spread its wings and then settled down as an intricate engraving. He closed Arthur’s hand over the coin and felt himself drifting away on the wind, light as a feather. They were getting smaller now, Arthur and his mentor, and while he stretched his wings, good, solid, crow’s wings, just out of the mold, he saw Arthur waving at him, and Gaius’ voice a low murmur, “You mustn’t tell anyone about this Arthur, give me the coin, it’s not your mother’s! ” He could see Arthur running away from Gaius, voice triumphant, “Only if you tell me _everything_ about my mother and what a great ruler she was! _Everything,_ Gaius!”

He laughed, taunting the storm with a ruffle of black feathers and forgot about everything else. This was his dream, after all. It was a long time before he landed on one of the branches of his oak and felt his wings turn back into roots again.

 **IV.**  
Smears of blood painted Camelot’s once-white walls, its banners torn and laced with black. Camelot was at war, with itself and with the madness of its king. When he looked at Camelot now he saw the bones of those killed in the name of order, the rotting bodies under the barren fields. 

He was having a nightmare. 

He stepped out of his tree and walked towards the castle, its gates a mouth with iron spikes rusting from blood like huge, decaying teeth and it was making gurgling, burping smacking sounds, asking for more — 

He found himself on the floor, with the guard of Camelot running towards him and he couldn’t move, their blades outstretched and he still couldn’t move — 

Until he found himself in front of Camelot’s guards, swords drawn. He summoned his magic as he saw a blades whirr towards him, he would end this now, once and for all. A burst of flames hit the ground in front of him, and then he was in the air again, soaring across the sky, on the back of a dragon.

He had always hoped that dragons were real but he had never found one.

“Old warlock, aren’t you a little too wise to want to kill yourself just now? The world is changing and it’s your fault.” He put his ear against the dragon’s neck, listened to its heartbeat and prayed that he would finally sleep, dreamless, or wake up. 

**V.**  
The stale stench of smoke was still in the air, when he found himself in the courtyard again. He stepped out of the wall and dusted off the smell of blood that clung to him, the tattered smears of war. He could not remember how he got here, but he was still dreaming. 

“When I grow up, I shall be king and I shall banish you!” The young man’s voice, Arthur’s, he realized and wondered how long he had managed to escape his dream this time, was as clear as his hair was light and rang with childish arrogance. Childish. That was the _last_ thing he needed right now, another childish boy-king, a childish prince to a mad father. Uther had not succumbed to his madness but had forged it into a weapon. A weapon that he used against the kingdom. 

He had underestimated the old bastard, and in doing so had made matters worse. He could not save Camelot or create Albion, even in his dream. 

“Shall or will? Honestly Arthur, if you were going to threaten me, at least make it sound threatening.” That taunt was equally childish, the voice that delivered it, however, was not.

 _Morgan._ He would recognize that voice anywhere. Morgan, who was not bitter and vengeful, who never had to be groomed to become a leader because she had always been one. Morgan, whose spirit shone so bright it hurt his eyes and who would be pushed aside for her brother, always, because of her blood.

“What is she to you, anyway? She is just a handmaiden, it’s not as if I insulted one of your precious, boot-licking—“ The sound of Morgan’s hand connecting with Arthur’s cheek echoed through the courtyard and even the castle itself gasped, slamming shut its doors and windows with an outraged gust of winds. The castle and the onlookers, servants and nobles drew another gasp when she answered, her voice confident and loud enough to carry up to the king’s rooms. “Gwen is not just a servant, she is my friend! You’d understand but you don’t have any! You only have grovelling, shoe-licking lackeys who would roll over and show their belly to you rather than tell you what you really are!”

Arthur took another step towards her, his rage so young and trivial that it made him smile. “I have better things to do with my time than make friends with servants, I don’t just have to sit around and wait to be married off, after all—“ Morgan - Morgana - lunged at him in a flurry of cloth and pearls. “You fat, ugly, stupid buffoon of a — I pity the kingdom that is going to be yours!”

When two guards finally separated them under defiant murmurs of _sire_ and _m’lady_ , Morgana’s dress was torn and her hair welled out of her hairnet in strands. She spat at him and Arthur turned away, nursing a black eye and a split lip. “Don’t you ever talk like that about me or Gwen again, don’t you ever mention her name! I will kill you in your sleep, you stupid, sweaty brat!” 

He believed her without reservation. 

The shot each other measuring glares, like lions about to pounce. While the servants, stewards and guards stood by but did not dare to go near them again, one woman brushed through the crowd and took Morgana by the elbow, only curtsying as an afterthought between her steps. Morgana brushed past Arthur and stepped on his toe, wearing her dishevelled hair like a crown. He followed them because even in his dream, _especially_ in his dream would not listen to another spoilt boys’ sulking. 

“Don’t worry Gwen, the lecture Arthur will have to endure from Uther on how to treat a lady and how not to make himself a fool in front of his whole court will teach him never to speak of you like that again,” Morgan strode down the corridors, careful not to show her limp and took Gwen’s hand into her own. “Milady—“ Morgana cut her off with a squeeze of her hand. “I have just defended your honor, will you not at least call me by my name, just today?”

“Morgana, and I will always be your friend, even if I have to call you _m’lady_.”

That’s because Morgana was already hers. He followed them through the corridors. This Morgana had kindness as well as strength and defiance. Maybe this one was different.

Maybe he had to help her not to _become_ Morgan. If Morgan had known what would become of Albion and of herself, if she had been there to guide Arthur rather than bring about his downfall, if he could have made her _see_ — He watched and waited until nightfall, until Uther, unable to hide his amusement and pride, had made them apologize to each other like the children they still were until he stepped into Morgana’s chambers. He pressed his finger between her eyes and gave her his third eye, as a gift. She would know of the shape of things to come now, she would see. 

Next, he would have to see to Arthur and make him see. 

**VI.**  
Arthur carried himself an easy arrogance that he held in front of him like a shield to protect himself from his father’s wrath and the court’s expectations. Groomed to become a king and schooled court etiquette, politics and intrigue, he tried his very best to please his father. 

Which made him a horrible prince and would make him an even worse king. 

What distinguished him from his father was his love for the forest. He knew the forests around Camelot just as well as he knew the castle, but he loved the forest. He tried to encourage that and keep him here, away from the prying eyes and whispered judgements. In his experience, there was nothing that upset Arthur that a warm breeze and a good hunt wouldn’t cure, which was both relieving and disturbing. 

Sometimes, when dusk settled over the hills and the leaves collected the first breaths of frost, when the hunt was over and Arthur had sent the hunting party on its way back to Camelot, he would tell him about Ygraine. He would watch Arthur as he settled down beneath the oak, leaning against his roots with his eyes closed and his breath even and tell him about the king he would become, a good, harsh, fair ruler, who would unite Albion and bring magic back to the land.

Mostly told him about Ygraine, though, in the only language he could speak, the rustle of leaves, the soft spring rain. He wasn’t sure if Arthur understood, but he always came back, the coin in his hand, running his thumb over its surface in slow circles. 

He didn’t want a brooding king. He scared a flock of magpies from their quarters for the night just to shake Arthur out of his thoughts. _Come on. Let’s hunt, boy, you’re still too young to be king. He sent a stag his way just to cheer him up. You are too young to burden yourself with grief that isn’t yours._

He was surprised that Arthur left his crossbow behind when he leapt up and followed the stag into the dark of the woods. He followed their footsteps, the scent of hunt and their excitement. This was a game for both of them, the stag trailing within Arthur’s range of sight and sound, leading him deeper and deeper into the forest. By the time Arthur had caught up with it, touched its antlers and sent it on its way with nod, ever the king, it was completely dark. 

_You are not too young, however, to ask the important questions._

The way Arthur looked around, breath at the back of his throat, made him almost think that he had heard him. He’d claim this Arthur, even if he was sick and tired of this dream. He wouldn’t let his fears win, not even in his own head. With effort he let blue orbs dance out of the thicket, translucent and fragile, floating in graceful orbits around him. 

_Little worlds, young king, each and every one of them. And they are yours._

When Arthur didn’t run, just stood there, watching with his head tilted just like Ygraine used to do when she was thinking, a faint expression of wonder on his face, he knew that, at least, for now, he had won.  
He let one of the orbs guide him back to Camelot, hoping that it wouldn’t fade before they reached their destination.

He had won, just barely. Now he had to make sure it stayed that way, or find somebody who would because he was so very tired and could do with a nap.


End file.
